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Knowing someone has a thing for you has its upsides; you get to pretend like you’re not in the least bit flattered yet secretly you enjoy the attention. You answer their overly personal game of twenty questions with nonchalance and shrugs. You drop subtle hints of things you want and/or need then they magically appear. You act aloof and disinterested even though on some level the potential of human contact is the greatest thing to happen to you since that time you decided to eat soup in bed and kept the spill on your pillow for a midnight snack. Minestrone, you old devil!

But when you know it will never, ever, in a million years be a thing. Every tactless wink, every attempt at gratuitous body contact, every moment of plutonic banter and every time you catch them raping your unprotected body with their eyeballs makes you want to shrink them down, stuff them in a glass bottle, hide them in a HIVy gash and beat that shit like it’s a piñata on Cinco de Mayo. Especially when it’s at work.

*Never dip your nib in the office ink. *

In light of that particularly unfortunate situation I have been toying with the idea of celibacy. It makes sense. The thought of touching anything remotely phallic fills me with a mixture of anger and fear reserved for the Furby that I hid in my sock drawer at night in order to muffle its demonic phrases before I threw it out the window – not sure if actual childhood memory or plot to The Exorcist.

* I’m going to speak to some food about this. *

I don’t think I could really commit to celibacy though. Considering the pleasure I get from consuming a whole loaf of sourdough is tantamount to orgasm. It would just be wrong. I have been secretly hoping that a coeliac bites me and I become afflicted with gluten intolerance. Both celibacy and bread related abstinence seem somewhat unlikely after the cute sales assistant at the bakery correctly identified my Salvador Dali print jumper, smiled and made my tummy feel funny. Or maybe that was the couple of glasses of wine I had at 2:00pm. Either way, I’m back on the wagon.

* But I already have a drink. Do you think he’d buy me mozzarella sticks? *

So now that it’s well and truly wintertime down under. I can’t for the life of me understand why women continue to dress as though it’s the height of summer. It’s extremely frustrating. I understand that you have daddy issues and an overwhelming desire to parade around like a common whore. But can you please just wear some pants or a garment larger than your fake breasts instead of an outfit comprised predominately of bras and underwear. To those delightful women who scorn the latter please remember to carry a “slippery when wet” sign with you. Your trailing flaps have managed to make the sidewalk “slicker than cat shit on linoleum floor.”

* Mr. Gravity’s been very unkind to that woman. *

I realized that I’ve invested more time in this blog than into any one of my actual relationships. Probably because most of them acted like they were doing a fuck by numbers in the bedroom. And after reading that one in twenty five people are sociopaths I’m concerned that these last five months spent laying out my particular brand of crazy might not stand me in good stead for any sort of relationship; on the wagon or no. Oh well, what can you do? Lawyers are also the second most likely profession to harbor sociopaths. So what with my graduation looming and classes commencing in August at least I know I’m heading in the right direction. Now is a good a time as any time to watch The Pelican Brief and align my career once again with a role played by Julia Roberts. The former was finding a rich husband to take me to polo and curb my whimsical, slutty ways.

I decided to wait a little bit longer to post this week in the vain hope that something exciting might happen. It turns out all I did was turn champagne into champleasure, denounce sloths as tree pedophiles and then struggle through a hangover. No boys. No gossip. Nothing.

* You know, if I were as pathetic as you are, I would have killed myself ages ago. You should get on with it. *

However, I did manage some weird shit when I was drunk and walking home:

I made it rain with my old bus tickets that were taking up too much space in my wallet.

Luckily sober me had left out some painkillers; vitamin c tablets and an electrolyte replacement drink on my bedside table.

* And injustice deliciously squared, Be prepared! *

Winter is coming and I couldn’t be more excited. The 3pm lie-ins, the scarves, the soups and the moment that pajamas becoming acceptable everyday wear; what’s not to love? What I can’t stand though is winter dryness. It’s just awful. My skin is drier than Susan Boyle’s snatch; you could literally use my elbows to carve a smile into Nicole Kidman’s wooden excuse for a face.

* This layout for the Winter Wonderland spread. Not wonderful yet. *

By some small miracle I’ve also managed to get out of my financial funk[3]. So I celebrated by buying tickets to see my favorite all-American bitch next door: Taylor Swift. I really hope she sits on my face and immortalizes our exchange in song form with a catchy title like “I Knew You Were A Cunning Linguist” or “Fingers Too”. Red could’ve been a very different album.

* Why should I listen to you, anyway? You’re a virgin who can’t drive. *

I was out for dinner the other night when someone aimed their fork and my plate and paused expectantly. I didn’t realize what was happening till they’d raped my delicious meal with their pointy saliva covered prongs. I can’t stand sharing food. If I wanted some of your meal I would have ordered the same thing as you instead of what I got. You should do the same. No, no. Please don’t offer me a taste of yours. Because we both know I’ll refuse. I also won’t be returning the offer. This isn’t sex; I’m not giving you something for nothing.

* Would you like another lick of my flavor bar? *

I started my new job this week. It turns out I’m a cerulean jumper away from being Andrea Sachs in The Devil Wears Prada. I parked his car, opened his mail, made coffee and felt generally out of my depth. I did manage to note that the bathroom soap smells pleasantly of marshmallows though. I suppose my trial shift didn’t exactly prepare me for the ins and outs of office life: we spent 3 hours at a fully catered lunch alcohol included. I suppose second impressions count less when there’s wine involved. Here’s hoping I find some Jimmy Choo’s in my size and befriend Stanley Tucci by Wednesday.

* Can you please spell “Gabbana”? *

I also had to sit through a tedious interaction with my brother. I try to avoid doing so at all costs because he’s a total narcissist. He requires constant validation and will go about getting it any way he can. Be it through putting people down or talking up his mediocre achievements. I mean honestly, what else would a 25 year old be doing joining a health club whose primary patrons are wealthy lawyers with a median age of 65. He’s clearly desperate to be labeled as youthful and intelligent by comparison the stupid git…unless of course he enjoys sharing steam rooms with older men. But everyone knows those gene’s wouldn’t fit his child bearing hips in a million years.

* And when I close my eyes, I see you for who you truly are, which is ug-lay. *

Lastly I’ve shed another couple of kilos but I think the diet is starting to mess with my brain. I’ve begun to see food everywhere and I’ve developed serious cravings for carbohydrates. If only I could feel as strongly for a human being as I do about carbs. Find me a human breadstick and I will eat them with love and regret nothing.